Thoughts of a Boy, Shot
by CraZyPshyChoLadY
Summary: Tom intercepts an intruder on the morning of his 15th birthday. He gets shot. Not character death. Minor swearing. A fanficiton to celebrate my 15th birthday. Please read and review. One-shot. Mild drabble like qualities. Avoid excess consumption. :D


Thoughts of a Boy, Shot – An Alex Rider Fanfiction

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Disclaimer: I don't own any brand names mentioned in this, including, but not limited to, Alex Rider and any characters recognizable from the Alex Rider series by Anthony Horowitz

At three thirty two AM on my fifteenth birthday, I heard a plate shatter downstairs. It woke me instantly. In the day time I would have just cranked up my iPod and assumed it was mum and dad arguing again but mum was at Aunty Joyce's in Aberdeen and I could hear dad's snores from across the landing. So that ruled out parents and Jerry was in Italy still. I was really puzzled, we weren't allowed pets 'cause mum reckons they're all filthy plague carriers and there was no way an animals could get in. Likewise the wind; there were so many draught excluders downstairs that you couldn't breath for fear of one of them attacking you. Either I imagined it (not likely) or there was an 'intruder' downstairs. Right. What should I do now? The logical thing to do would be to wake up dad and get him to go downstairs but a part of me rejected that idea. This facet of my personality had been showing up more and more recently, and I had privately dubbed it my 'Inner Alex'. Whenever it surfaced my first thought was 'What would Alex do?'. Right now it was telling me to go downstairs and see what was going on. Great, when someone asks me what the hell I was thinking, I can just say my 'Inner Alex' told me to do it. That's worse than just 'the voices' because I've actually named my one. I don't know if the actual Alex would be dumb enough to do it, but I was willing to give it a go.

My heart was going a mile a minute as I inched down our, thankfully silent, stair treads. The adrenalin felt like it was spiking in my blood as I stooped down to grab the cricket bat that had been leaning against the wall since last summer, when Alex and I spent the day in Hyde Park, just chucking balls at each other and laughing. If there _**was**_ an intruder then I wanted something to even up the odds. Creeping forward, I listened carefully to see which room he was in. all was silent for a few moments, but then I heard a muffled curse come from the kitchen. I edged ever closer, twisting the bat in my hands as I prepared to spring into action. What I hadn't prepared for was that he was armed too.....

I leapt into the kitchen, ready to strike, when I found myself staring down the business end of a Browning High Power automatic pistol. 9mm bullets. I think I must have gone into shock, because all I could think was that it needed a good clean and polish. I stood, frozen, trying to make my arms and legs move into one of the Karate defence positions Al' had been teaching me. I don't know why I thought that would help against a bullet, I just needed to focus on _**something**__, __**ANYTHING**_, to stop myself from screaming or pissing myself. If I screamed, my dad would wake up__and then he would be dragged into this nightmare as well. I tried to keep calm but no one tells you how difficult that is when there's a gun pointed at your chest.

I realised then that the burglar hadn't said anything to me, he was just standing there with a bored look on his face. That really pissed me off. Who was he, to break into _**MY **_ house, point a gun at _**MY CHEST**_ and then have the bloody front to look _**BORED?!**_ I lost it, swinging the bat at him like I was possessed. Only a few of the blows did any real damage but I wasn't about to stop now. I kept on hitting him, landing blows on his head, his stomach, kidneys and where-the-sun-don't-shine. He was so busy trying to dodge the onslaught that he couldn't return the hits, much less aim the gun.

That changed after I landed a lucky blow to the back of his knees (God knows how). He fell forwards, his knees hitting the lino. I was about to smack him round the back of the head, hoping to end this, when he raised the gun to fire. I swung the bat down but as the blow connected, his finger closed around the trigger. He was out knocked out cold.

My arm felt like it was burning but the rest of my body was like ice. When I turned to look at it blood was oozing out of a wound, about the size of a twenty pence piece. As I watched drip onto the floor, I had to grab onto the counter top to stop myself from fainting. I've never been comfortable seeing other peoples blood but when I see my own, I'm caught between the urge to vomit and the need to faint. I began to feel numb and I knew if I didn't call for my dad very, very soon I could pass out and bleed to death on the kitchen floor; and if that it stained mum would kill me herself.

That was when I started yelling. I tried to stop and take some deep breaths and calm down but the noise just wouldn't stop. I finally ran out of air just as my dad came barrelling in. it took him a moment to realise that the lump in the middle of the floor was an unconscious man with a gun and that his only just fifteen year old son was bleeding from a bullet wound and getting blood on hid favourite Arsenal shirt. By then the blood was pooling on the lino. The last thing I remember was throwing up and blacking out.

When I woke up I was in horrific hospital pyjamas, that had so much starch in them it felt like I was in a straight jacket. Mum and dad were sitting either side of Jerry, not arguing would you believe.

The pain in my arm had reduced to a dull throb, thanks I think, to the drip insert in the crook of my elbow. Jer' was the first one to notice me coming round. He went to get a nurse, no clue why, I felt fine, I think he's been watching too many soap operas. Mum practically leapt to the side of the bed, burbling that soothing spiel mothers come out with when their kids get hurt or upset. It's a load of old rubbish really, but at least she seems to think it's helping.

Dad was standing in the corner, looking really shocked. I wonder why? Though I don't suppose that the 'dad' chapter of those baby manuals have a section entitled 'What to do when your child gets shot 101'. It's difficult for him to get his head around I guess. I wonder if this is what Jack is like with Al' all the time? It's amazing he can stand all this mollycoddling every day. Oh look, Jerry's back and he's not alone. He's brought a pretty nurse with him. Who he's chatting up. Nice. Your little brother has been shot, but screw getting him medical attention, just see what happens when you say 'I've lost my phone number, can I have yours?' to the nurse. It suddenly struck me that he got here from Italy awfully quickly and the same with mum and Scotland. How long had I been out?

Oh great. According to mum I've been out for two days. Something about my body shutting down for repairs. So I've missed my fifteenth birthday _**COMPLETELY!**_ Still, a child who's been injured, shot no less, has got to mean more presents, right? I mean, come on, it's at least worth the new Assassin's Creed game for my X-Box. Oh joy, the police are here so I can make a statement.

After I'd recounted my tale three times, to two different police officers and a police woman (who Jerry tried to chat up. Turns out she's gay anyway, but that didn't stop the nurse from earlier from giving him a _**right**_ wallop! Ha ha ha), they left to process them at the station. Dad said Alex was outside, would I like to talk to him? Well duh! My family's nice and everything, till you put them in the same room as each other. My dear darling parents were _**already**_ throwing death glares at each and Jerry was across the hall, trying to score with one of the _**patients **_now, so Al' would be a welcome relief.

Alex _**literally**_ moseyed in after the horrors had scattered, chucking me a bar of Cadbury's Bournville (my favourite) that was roughly the same size as the copy of 'Tom Brown's School Days' that I was supposed to be writing a report on. Damnation! It would appear that I've been shot in my _**right**_ arm, therefore preventing me from writing the epic paper I would otherwise have penned. Such a tragedy. Ah well. Alex was now flopped in one chair with his feet resting on one of the other ones, waiting for me to stop spacing. I offered him some chocolate, which he took and placed on the arm of the chair. All he said was 'So how have ya been?' How have I been? That's it? Flash git! Just cause he gets shot every other day.

I've decided to never listen to my 'Inner Alex' again. It's not worth the bullet wounds.

**THE END.**

A.N. Hi! It's my 15th birthday today, hence the fic! I like Tom, he seems like an optimistic kinda guy and I don't think he gets enough solo fics. Even though I did shoot him in this one. Oh well. Please review.


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